[A poem drawn from words and phrases in this essay, in the New Yorker.]

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Survival Condo Project

I will arise and go now, and go to Wichita.
I keep a copter ready, gassed up all the time.
For to think ad infinitum is to think dystopia:
Quake on the fault, pandemic, dirty bomb.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from silo walls to where the bitcoin rings;
There the prairie’s all aglimmer on the live video
And evening full of taped birds’ wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear disaster slapping with loud sounds on the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

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3 Responses to “A Magazine Poem.”

  1. dmf Says:

    bravissima.

    http://www.news.com.au/technology/innovation/silicon-valleys-super-rich-are-eyeing-new-zealand-for-escape-plans/news-story/d3edc3233b30ef381b66414d2c7b05a7

  2. Margaret Soltan Says:

    dmf: thanks.

  3. dmf Says:

    thank you UD good to have these breaks from the downward swirl, here’s an entertaining bit of Trumpiana tale spinning:
    https://soundcloud.com/bwalker/the-twentieth-day-of-january

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